


In Sweet Repose

by ranchelle



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranchelle/pseuds/ranchelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders has to heal a mage-hating brooding elf who makes everything difficult for him.  And Hawke isn't helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sweet Repose

  
"That's the last of them," said Varric, giving his beloved crossbow a kiss.

"Varric, that's disgusting," said Hawke.

"You're just jealous, aren't you?" Varric rubbed his crossbow against his cheek, smearing more blood onto his face.

"Bianca's _drenched_ in the bodily fluids of the raiders we've just killed."

"Such vulgar language in front of a lady," tutted Varric, holding Bianca closer to his chest.

A soft green light enveloped Hawke, healing him of some nasty gashes.  He flexed his arms, and finding them fully functional once more, directed his satisfaction to the healer.

"Thanks, Anders. What would we do without our trusty healer?"

"Very charming," sighed Anders.  "If you are both done, we should-"

"There's more of them!" yelled Fenris, running over to the rest, a rain of arrows chasing his shadow.

Hawke motioned the elf to hurry over and tossed a flask on the floor, shrouding both of them in smoke.  In broad daylight, it did not work as well as he liked, but it bought them a little time while they looked for their attackers and readied themselves for a second onslaught.

"There!" Varric pointed out.  Anders readied a fireball and tossed it in the general direction the dwarf pointed and was rewarded with the screams of burning raiders.  The arrows didn't stop, and they were soon cornered.

More raiders, every one armed to the teeth, appeared, keeping their distance from them.  Varric picked them out one by one, but he was one and they were many.  A row of archers made their way to the front and the air around them stilled as they held their bows nocked and ready.

Outnumbered with nowhere to run, Hawke and his companions had very little options.

Fenris threw a glare at Anders and the mage scowled back. He knew what the warrior was planning.  At times like these, only brute force could prevail.

On the warrior's cue, Anders shot a fireball at the raiders as Fenris charged straight into the volley of flying arrows, carving a way out for the rest of them.  Hawke joined him shortly, covering his back.

"Ouch.  That has got to hurt," said Hawke as an arrow or twelve nicked Fenris's limbs.  The elf's armour did well to protect him against most of the arrows but a few of them managed to penetrate the tough leather, worming further into his flesh as he moved without reserve.  He showed no signs of slowing despite his wounds, and continued to sweep his way through the throng, cutting down men after men.

Anders and Varric took upon themselves to do the cleanup, picking off any stragglers Fenris and Hawke didn't get.

Finally, when the last raider was vanquished, Hawke led them a little way from the corpse-littered grounds and left the relatively unscathed Varric to loot the bodies.  He tossed a vial of lyrium to Anders, who uncapped it and gulped it down, letting the liquid restore his energy.

"First in line for healing!" Hawke stood in front of Anders and grinned, holding out his bleeding arms for the healer to work his magic on as Fenris, falling far behind them, dropped walking in favour of limping.

"How is it you can be so cheerful all the time, I do not know," mumbled Anders as he gathered a ball of healing energy in his hands and moulded them into Hawke's arms.

"That'll do. I'll patch the rest up myself," said the rogue. "You'd better take a look at him," Hawke gestured to the warrior ambling towards them.  Anders looked up from Hawke and frowned when Fenris came close enough for him to see the extent of his injuries.

"You look...like a pin-cushion," Anders stuttered.  _Damn Hawke and his infectious sarcasm._ He hadn't meant to say this! He hoped he didn't sound offensive because Fenris looked like he might be edgy. And by edgy he meant the 'touch me and I'll play magical-fisting with you' sort of edgy.

"Andraste's pinched tits, you're now as prickly outside as you are inside," observed Hawke.  Anders picked up the concern in his voice and knew Hawke was just trying to get them to lighten up but, _Maker_ , couldn't he keep his lame puns away from someone who did not appreciate jokes made at his expense?

Anders threw their leader a withering look.  Hawke shrugged it off sheepishly and lent his shoulder for Fenris to lean on.

Fenris was oblivious to any of their comments as he was busy bleeding from fresh gaping holes in his body where he tore out arrows from.  He steadied himself with Hawke's offered shoulder as he pulled out another arrow that had gone through his armour, one that was embedded half an inch into his side.

"Damn arrows," the elf scowled the words out through gritted teeth.  He sat unceremoniously on a rock and glared at the arrows sticking out from his legs.  He grabbed at an arrow that caught onto his legging and tore it out along with bits of his skin.  He then reached and tugged at another one stuck behind his shoulder.  Finding he couldn't reach it, he growled.

No small part of Anders wanted to slap the elf's hand away and yell at him for being so rough with his wounds.  He could tell from the amount of blood on the floor that if he didn't close the wounds soon, the elf would bleed to death before nightfall.  Which was fast approaching.  He hastily got to healing whatever he could see amidst the bloody mess. 

Anders pulled out the bandages from an injury kit and identified the areas that required immediate attention.  It was too much for him to deal with at once, so he pressed the bandages on the wounds to staunch the bleeding.  Hawke caught on and took over while Anders healed the bleeding lacerations one by one.  His progress was agonizingly slow as the edges of the wounds were ragged with bits of flesh gouged out and torn off.  He could knit flesh but creating flesh was something only the body could do for itself.  At most he could speed up the process but it would still take days.  Stopping the bleeding was about all he could do for now.

Fenris had made a show of hissing and growling every time Anders's hands glowed.  Did the elf really need to show disapproval at everything he did?  Anders gave an inward sigh.  The elf was vocal about his hatred for mages and himself, but to be despised even as a healer just because he abhored all forms of magic, even healing ones; that was just being downright irrational.

This was the first time he's had so much of the elf's blood on him and it felt strange, but not wholly unpleasant.  His hands were tingling.  Justice stirred lazily within him.  Perhaps the lyrium in the elf's body imposed its properties onto the blood of its host?  He had stared at his hands for a moment too long, for Fenris caught it and turned away, refusing to meet the mage's eyes.

He wiped his hands off the now dirtied bandages and tossed them aside.  Fenris ought not to be in danger for now, but he was still wearing a few arrows in his flesh.  Leaving him be until they returned to his clinic where he at least had the right tools and medicine to deal with the rest would be for the best.  He slumped down where he stood, taking deep breaths to ease his giddiness from the effort.  The seated elf was now leaning heavily on Hawke for support, shaky from the loss of blood.

Varric, who finally returned with an armful of loot, cursed Hawke for demanding he carry back every last piece of junk.  Even if it were a pair of well-worn torn trousers.  The first of many mysteries in and around Kirkwall was right under his wrinkled up nose.  How did these people manage to lose their trousers everywhere?  Whatever possessed these poor sods to lock away their torn trousers in expensive looking treasure chests?  In the middle of nowhere on the Wounded Coast?

"Copper-pinching bastard," snorted Varric as he dropped the loot at Hawke's feet.

"Every copper counts!" grinned Hawke.  "Come on, drinks on me at the Hanged Man when we get back."

"The elf doesn't look so good," observed Varric.

On seeing Fenris in such a state, the dwarf threw out his arms in an open embrace and said, "Broody, if you hadn't charged mindlessly into the raiders like a nug in heat, I think we'd all be a lot worse off.  To show my gratitude, I'd like you to have this shiny bauble I picked up."  He dropped a gaudy Orlesian amulet in the elf's upturned palm.

Fenris snorted and tossed the amulet back at Varric.

"Oh, come on.  I thought you might like shiny things, seeing you're always dressed in crow black.  And if you're trying to be fashionable, it matches your eyes," quipped the dwarf.

"It does offset the raider blood on you quite nicely," offered Hawke kindly.

Anders could have slapped his forehead in exasperation.  Two rogues in a team do _not_ make a right.

"Right then.  Shall we head back? Ser Crow here needs more treatment."  Hawke chuckled as he put Fenris's arm over his shoulder and slid his other arm around the slender elf's waist to haul him to his feet.

Varric, being of dwarven height, could not help carry the elf, so he led the way back to Kirkwall while Anders trailed behind with the loot bundled in his arms, half-dragging his feet from mana exhaustion.

 

By the time they returned, it was nightfall.  Varric left for the Hanged Man, insisting that Bianca was scratched and required his immediate attention.  The remaining three made their way to Darktown and deposited the injured elf onto Anders's cot in the quiet far corner of the clinic, making the healer cringe to see his own bed so subjected to an unhealthy helping of dried elf-blood.

"Fenris likes privacy."  Hawke pushed the blame.

"If it annoys you, then yes, I like my privacy," said Fenris, looking a little too smug.

Anders rolled his eyes.  He tossed the looted items he was carrying in a corner and gave it an impatient kick to make it stay there.

"Don't do that.  There's good silver to be had in that pile."

"I can't see it for all the junk, Hawke."

"That's the point!  No one but me would think of actually making a fortune off selling trash."

"Whatever tickles your fancy, leader.  Now let's get Fenris out of his armour so I can see what to do with him."

A look of wide-eyed disapproval took over Fenris's face at that suggestion.

"What is it this time?" said Anders, his patience wearing very thin.

"I'm not taking off my armour," snapped the warrior.

"You can choose to take it off or die from your wounds," said Anders.  "Either way it doesn't bother me."

"I'd rather die than to leave myself so exposed to a mage."

"Suit yourself."

"Anders.  He's just being more of a mage-hating brooding elf than usual because he's got arrows sticking out of him.  That's bound to make anyone grumpy,"  Hawke turned to said grumpy elf and sought affirmation, "right, Fenris?"

Fenris snorted.

"There you have it.  Now why don't you play Healer and Patient instead of Cats and Dogs?"

"Don't you bring cats into this, Hawke," warned Anders.  He did give the suggestion some thought.

"I'll do it.  This is a sanctuary of healing after all.  I will heal anyone here who needs me.  I do pride myself as a good mage healer."

"I don't need you," muttered the mage-hating brooding elf.

Anders ignored him.  A patient was a patient.  Of all the patients he had treated on a weirdness scale of five, Fenris wasn't even a two.  Maker knows what went on in the head of that senile old geezer who kept insisting he was his paid-for whore.  Or the mad, diseased woman refugee Lirene brought in who grabbed a pair of scissors and tried to snip his balls off for resembling her unfaithful husband.  He shuddered to recall what could have happened to Little Anders if she hadn't tripped over herself.  Still, he treated them all and while he could mend flesh and set broken bones, it was impossible to heal a mind so deep into madness.  It was also easier to talk a crazed blood-mage out of the crazy he was in than to ask Fenris to stop hating mages.

"Please take off your armour, Fenris," asked Anders in his most civil voice.

"No."

Anders almost snapped, but the healer in him knew better than to lose his temper over a wounded patient.  _Deep breaths, Anders,_ he told himself.  _I'm the adult here.  He doesn't know better.  Just like the crying brats I get from time to time.   Show him how nice a mage can be.  Maybe you could even get him to change his mind about not killing all mages.  If not, you can always get back at him after he's healed._

After no small effort of coaxing, he had Hawke talk Fenris into shedding his armour and gauntlets.  Fenris kept his head low, for without steel and leather encasing his skin, he felt more a cornered wolf than the intimidating one he usually was.  He tentatively peered at Hawke.  He'd let the man talk him into anything.  If Hawke wanted him to take a leap of faith off a cliff butt-naked into the sea, he would do so.  Perhaps unwillingly, but he would do so.

Anders could see the warrior's slender frame looking even smaller without the leather.  With all these wounds, he looked like a scrawny beaten mongrel.  The look on the elf's face almost made him feel sorry for having to take his armour away from him.

"You...really like your armour so much you wear it all the time?"

"Yes, mage, I wear it all the time.  Is that a problem?"

"Even to sleep?"

"Yes.  Can you stop the inane prodding now?"

A pang of guilt wormed its way into Anders's heart.  Personal experience told him that the elf's anger was simply the only way he could lash out, clumsy as it was; a mask he wore over a dark pit of fear.  Andraste's ass, the elf was scared and Anders knew he wasn't helping.  Justice suggested he stop meaningless banter and get to work, which he agreed.

"We should dislodge the arrow from your shoulder first," said Anders, almost apologetic.  He peeled away the elf's torn undertunic to reveal the shoulder.  He hesitated, fingers hovering over the skin, looking to Fenris for some sort of consent.  The elf caught the question on Anders's face and nodded, then prepared himself to accept the mage's touch. 

Fenris saw the muscles in the mage's shoulders tense up like a wary beast and raised a brow.  It couldn't be his wounds, could it?  He hadn't known Anders to be the squeamish type, especially considering that they had just splattered Raider-brains for breakfast, dragged out Raider-guts for lunch, and just had a good helping of unidentified flying Raider-bits for an early dinner.  Everyone in the team had been covered in generous dollops of ichor. 

The man carefully avoided touching his markings.  He could feel the wariness in the mage's fingers as they ran along his shoulders and upper arms nervously.  Fenris knew that look on his face-pursed lips, a taut frown, the way he swallowed...it was unmistakable.

"My markings are repulsive to you," sneered Fenris.

The hand jumped from his skin as if on cue.

He hadn't remembered a time where Anders had touched him.  Everyone around them knew they didn't _touch_.  They shove, jostle, yank, slap, kick and punch when they required any form of necessary bodily contact.  Even when he needed healing, the mage usually did it without touching him.  Then again, Fenris did not usually do imitations of pin-cushions.

"What?  I am not—why would you say that?"

"Because you look like you'd rather be cuddling up Hawke's mabari right now," said the elf.

The mage sputtered, finding utter injustice in Fenris's words.  "Even you make far better company than that slobbering beast.  He ruined my best pauldrons!  Chewed them right off my shoulders."  When he saw the amused smirk on Fenris's face, he cleared his throat, restrained himself and added, "well, you are tolerable company when you're not trying to tear out my beating heart."

"So you are not put off?"

"By your markings?  Maker, no.  Quite the contrary, in fact.  Mages are a little more sensitive to lyrium than normal people, I suppose, and what with Justice and his obsession with lyrium and you having..." said Anders, a pale blush crawled up his face as he let the words die in the awkward awareness that he was talking too much.

Fenris looked to the mage, slightly bewildered, but he knew when to leave something unprobed.  For now.  He did not feel up to much conversation, but the words echoed in his mind.  He tucked them away as future leverage the next time he needed something to piss Anders off with.

Pressing and prodding gently at the angry, swelled flesh around the arrow, Anders gauged the depth and position of the arrow.  Fenris gritted his teeth at the pain that reverberated in his flesh when Anders gave the arrow a small tug.  Tossing the last remaining logs from his supply into the small fire to brighten the room, he let out a sigh and gathered his tools and an extra lamp from the shelf.

"It'll hurt, so it's better to put you to sleep," said Anders. 

Pulling a table over, he laid his tools onto it and rolled his sleeves up.  His fingers crackled with magic, but before he could get close, Fenris's tattoos flared to life and he backed away like a wild cat cornered by a mabari, hissing loudly, "What do you think you're doing, Abomination?"

"Putting you to sleep with magic is much safer than using herbs, you know.  If I mixed a little too much Deathroot in the anaesthesia you could die, or worse, wake up an idiot."

"I am _not_ letting you use magic on me!"  He shuddered, phantom pains throbbing through each of the lyrium lines carved into his body.  He sharply recalled images of bleeding slaves cut by their masters, reminding him why magic was to be feared and reviled.

Putting a slave to sleep with magic usually meant they would wake and find themselves on a table cut up and ready to be sacrificed for their master's blood magic rituals.

Better to bear the pain than the unknown.  At least pain was something he was familiar with.  When he served under Danarius, the healers had never bothered with any pain-numbing herbs.  They had always been rough with him and he had expected all healers to be such.  Slaves did not warrant special treatment, much less costly herbs that served no practical purpose.  To be healed in the first place was already a sign of how important of an investment he was to Danarius.

"You can stop brooding now," said Hawke, snapping him out of his, well, brooding.

"I heal you often enough in battle.  What's the big deal?" said Anders.

"That...is different.  Putting people to sleep is—I will not sleep in front of you," said the elf tersely.

Anders muttered a curse under his breath, stopped the spell he was preparing and threw his hands in the air in exasperation.  He looked to the leader and left it to him.  "Ask the elf what he bloody wants, Hawke.  I can't do my work if he keeps throwing tantrums at every little thing." 

A small sigh escaped Hawke.  Fenris hung his head low, knowing he was being a burden but every fibre of his being resisted the healer's suggestion.  _Magic does it worst when you turn your back to it.  Fall prey to it and you'd be lucky if you never wake up._   Fenris shook his head, willing the memories of Tevinter away.

"Don't worry, Fenris.  I'll stay here to make sure Anders doesn't do something like tattoo 'I HATE YOU ALL I WAS A SLAVE' on your chest while you sleep," assured Hawke.

"No."

"Stubborn git," snapped Anders.

Hawke, feeling a sudden urge to be a walking bucket of something other than sarcasm, suggested in the most diplomatic voice he could muster, "Fenris, why don't you tell us what you want us to do instead of saying no all the time?"

Hawke's words had the effect of getting Fenris to tilt his head up and look at him with the puppy-like eyes he would never admit having.  The rogue refrained himself from uttering anything, for he was sure the first thing to come out from his lips would be cooing, and that would send the crabby warrior right back into his spiky shell.  So instead, he gave Fenris a most reassuring smile.

Fenris straightened himself as far as his wounds allowed him to, and presented his answer.

"Mage.  You may treat my injuries without sleeping magics or herbs.  I don't mind the pain."

The healer gave him a pointed look and from his pouch, drew out a broken arrow he had brought back from the Wounded Coast and placed it on the table for them to see.

The arrowhead was barbed with three sets of nasty-looking hooks.  Hawke looked at Fenris and winced when he saw how deep the arrows went.  There was no way anyone could not mind this.

Fenris took in the shape of the arrow head with his eyes, closed them for a while, then calmly said, "I will not be subject to any sort of foul flesh-paralysing or mind-numbing magic.  I can take this level of pain.  Do not make such a fuss over nothing."

"Still—" Hawke protested, but was cut off by Anders.  He swore the healer looked a little sorry for Fenris before he scrunched his face into a look of annoyance.

"Fine.  I'll do as you wish.  But your stubbornness has worn me out, so I'm going to retire for the night and do this after I am rested."

"I don't think this should wait, Anders.  Arrow wounds like these should be treated as soon as possible," protested Hawke.

"Have fun wearing those arrows until I get my beauty rest," snapped Anders, who dragged a cot over and slumped into it, letting Hawke have the chair.

Hawke raised a brow.  Fenris was a handful, but surely Anders was not the kind of healer who'd let petty personal grudges get the better of him now, would he?

"I feel like a little nightcap," said Anders as he leaned over the cot he was on and fished out a bottle from a chest under the elf-occupied one.

"Hmm.  You took that from my cellar last week, didn't you?" noted the rogue.

"Never had the right excuse to drink it," smiled Anders, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"What's the occasion then?"

"I'm celebrating how I have this sodding elf lying on my bed right now with arrows sticking out of him," said Anders as he fished out two small cups from the same chest.  He was turned away from Fenris and Hawke noticed Anders's face was without mirth.  Catching onto Anders's intentions being the sharp fellow he was, Hawke took the bottle from Anders and poured for the both of them.

"I thought that demon of yours forbids you to drink," came a low growl from his cot.

"Justice is not a demon," said Anders, more admonishing than outraged.  There were only so many times he could get angry at this statement before it got old.  He continued explaining, "I remember saying Justice did not let me get drunk; I did not say he did not let me drink at all."

"A toast," said Hawke, grinning as he raised his cup.  The aroma of sweet apple brandy filled the little corner of the clinic.

"I hear being drunk makes even an Abomination look kissable.  I'm sure it'll be so much easier to work on the elf if I'm drunk," chuckled Anders.

"Mmm.  One sip and I'm in bliss,"  Hawke licked his lips. "This Antivan brandy is strong stuff."

"Stop talking like I'm not here," scowled Fenris.

"To Fenris," chuckled Hawke.

"To our prickly meat-shield," said Anders.  Before he could raise his cup to toast, the bottle dangling from his other hand was swiftly snatched away from him.

The little act of revenge was wine-sweet.  The warrior gave a small smirk as he took a long drag from the bottle and let the warm liquid work its way into his stomach.  Anders raised a brow.  Fenris, empowered with his little act of defiance, cocked his head at Anders and snorted.  His trembling hands steadied a little as the strong alcohol warmed his body.  He licked his lips and caught the scent of apples on his breath.  Eyeing the bottle with a newfound desire, he ventured to take another sip.  Even amidst the pain, the fragrance of this well-aged Antivan brandywine made him giddy with a little happiness.  A warm, tingling feeling washed over him when he realised he trusted his companions with his life.  He knew he was safe here with Hawke and the mage.  Safe enough to close his eyes and savour the drink; safe enough not to worry if Danarius or Hadriana would appear and catch him unawares. 

He could hear Hawke asking him to pour him another cup as he rambled on pointless stories.  The brandy must have loosened the witty rogue's lips, for his jokes had deteriorated from Varric-sarcasm to Isabela-raunchy.  He took another swig and let Hawke's voice serenade him, occasionally scrounging up a word or a grunt to let him know he was listening.

A while later, his mind started drifting.  Was the mage always this quiet?  No matter.  The pain was starting to dull.  The humming of his lyrium brands grew distant as his mind partially disconnected itself from his body.  It was painful but not unbearable.  He could live like this.

"That's quite enough," he heard Anders say.  The mage hopped out of the cot and took the bottle from him.  Fenris growled and reached his long fingers out, grabbed at the unreachable bottle and whined, which made both his companions raise a brow.

"I believe he's ready," came the mage's voice.

_Ready?  What for?_

"How many fingers am I holding up?"  _Who was asking?  And whose hand was it in front of his face?  Was it a trick question?_   He squinted.

"He's drunk," stated the mage.

"He's cute when he's drunk," added Hawke.

A clatter of metal.  Fenris could see the mage carry in a basin of water and a stack of bandages.  What was he doing?  Was there another patient?  He hadn't heard any knocking on the clinic doors the whole time he was here.

Anders's hands glowed with magic and ran them along the elf's arm, probing into the flesh to seek out anything broken.  He could feel the lyrium lines warm and buzzing beneath his hands.

"Stop that!" yelled Fenris, jerking away his hand and almost falling off the bed.

Anders stopped, startled.

"I'm just—"

"Don't.  No magic," begged Fenris, his voice quivering.  The tingling beneath his skin; the lyrium fighting to call out to the mage's glowing hands.  The feeling of magic trying to resonate with his lyrium brands was too much to take.

"Very well," came the mage's voice.  "I'll still have to use healing magic in the end to close your wounds, you know."

One look at the unnerved elf was all it took for him to relent.  "All right.  I'll use only the most basic of healing magic.  No probing, no dispelling magic."

Fenris looked a little more at ease now.  The sweet scent of apple filled the air as Anders soaked a small piece of clean rag with the brandy from his cup and brought it close to him.  _He didn't touch a drop,_ Fenris realised.

"Since you seem to uncomfortable with even dispelling magic, I'm cleaning your wounds the old fashioned way to prevent infection.  This will sting a little," came the healer's voice.  "You have ridiculously expensive tastes.  You probably wash your mouth out with whisky every morning and bathe in wine, don't you." 

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut as the rag ran over the numerous cuts across his back and hissed when it went over his shoulder and thigh around the arrows.  A moment's pause, and two large hands rubbed cool salve over the same areas.  He recognised these sword-calloused hands as Hawke's.  Within seconds the salve started to work its effect and he felt the pain slipping away.

"My hands are going numb, " said Hawke.

"That's why you're doing it and not me," replied Anders.

"What...are you doing, mage?"  drawled Fenris, his vision blurring.

"Can't you tell?"

"He's drunk, Anders.  What he is seeing are two hot naked elf-babes dancing in his lap."

"Heh."

"Not funny," grumbled the teased elf.

"Fenris.  Healing magic aside, are all right with a little touch of ice magic?" asked Anders.

Fenris chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes glassed over with drowsiness.  He somewhat resembled a helpless kitten as he gave a slow nod.  Anders found he couldn't bring himself to work anything but gentleness into his voice when the elf was like this.

Anders then turned to Hawke.  "Hold his shoulder, keep his head down and his hands to himself.  I'm going to get this sucker out."

"You make it sound like he's going to put his hands all over me," teased Hawke.

"You're very charming, Hawke, but please shut up for once."

Fenris felt Hawke's grip tighten in anticipation.  He tried to turn his head to see what the mage was up to but a large, warm hand pressed at the back of his neck and head, stopping him.

Anders's blood-slicked fingers were ice cold, pressed at the entrance of the wound while something cold prodded into his flesh.  There was no pain at first thanks to the salve and a touch of chill, but as the prodding reached deeper, the pain bloomed.  He could feel the prodding hit the arrowhead, and with a sharp breath behind him, he gritted his teeth as the metal seem to multiply, digging into his flesh to spread it open.  Something cold reached into the open flesh once and then a sharp pain raced through him and made his heart skip a beat.  Again.  And again.  He could feel his muscles give to the sharp knife that was digging a new path around the barbs.  A whimper escaped his lips as his breath hitched in his throat.

The cutting stopped, and he felt a tug.  The arrowhead eased out slowly against his cut flesh and it was out before he could finish muttering one of his colourful Arcanum curses.

He felt a sharp exhale of air behind him, and relief washed over him as he felt the fresh wounds close as quickly as it was cut.  The warm light bathed his shoulder for a while more and swept the remaining sensation of cold metal and pain away, leaving behind a tingling itch that he would recognise as the numbing salve's effect.

"No complications there, thank the Maker," came the soft voice behind him.  "The barbs didn't catch on anything when I took it out so it'll heal pretty fast."

"Wasn't that bad, was it?" asked the low voice to his side.  Warm hands cradled his head to a warm chest.  The comfortable position made Fenris lose all will to cling onto his pride.

"How are you holding up, Fenris?"  Ah, it was the mage.  Did he always sound like this?  So gentle, as if he was truly concerned.  His patients are a lucky lot, if he was like this to all of them, thought Fenris.  He growled, but it came out so void of malice it may well have been a low purr.  He could hear teasing remarks and wished he could straighten up and headbutt the annoying rogue.

"I'm going to work on your leg now," came the soft voice.  So soothing was the tone of the voice that the world seemed wrong.  This wasn't the world he belonged to, but Fenris felt he could want to get used to this.  This undeserved, unwarranted kindness, and how he could entrust himself to the people around him without any armour and without fear.  A small voice at the back of his head told him it was just the brandy talking, making human warmth feel so good despite the pain, and when he woke up, he would realise his feelings were just a fantasy he made up in his delirious state.

He felt Hawke and the mage shift him to his other side to reach his leg.  The mage's face grimaced into some sort of funny look.  Fenris giggled.  Hawke lightly ruffled the elf's hair.  Then Fenris growled.

"We ought to get him drunk more often," said Hawke.

"Yes, we should.  He's very cooperative when he's not being himself."

Anders propped the elf's leg up on a low chair, making sure there was nothing between the elf's thigh and the floor.  A small blade cut away the leggings around the arrow and Anders rolled the rest out of the way, baring Fenris's thigh.

"Refrain from moving or I will knock you out with a club to the head."

Fenris narrowed his eyes at Anders, but gave his silence as consent.  Without much warning, there was a chill in the air.  The healer's hands were covered in a cold mist and he wrapped those hands around Fenris's leg.  The elf gave a yelp, surprised by the startling sensation of ice on skin.  A callused hand rubbed his upper arm, letting him know everything was all right.  Hawke was behind him, letting him rest his head against his chest.

He continued to watch Anders work.  Now he could see what tools the healer used to work on his shoulder.  The healer coaxed the wound open with a hand while the other wielded a long pair of what looked like a cross between a pair of tongs and scissors that quested into the wound.  The metal was an uninvited intruder and it was very cold.  It caused more shock than pain.  Had the mage cast magic on it?  Some prodding later, the mage pronounced that the arrow was too deep for him to extract it the same way he did previously.

Fenris knew what was to come next, but he had never seen such amount of preparation coming from any healer he had the misfortune to meet.

Anders was flawless in his movements; he knew exactly what to do and there was never a moment's hesitation.  He found the mage fascinating to watch, his hands utilising his tools with a familiarity only a seasoned craftsman could have.  With a pair of cutters, he snipped off the splintered part of the arrow shaft.  He bound a strip of cloth around Fenris's upper thigh, before the arrow, to cut off the blood circulation.  The cloth was as cold as his hands.  Magic.  The ice had a numbing sensation he could almost savour.  Anything that offered some small form of reprieve from the discomfort of metal grating in flesh was welcome.

"Fenris," said Anders in a most gentle voice, "I'm going to push the arrow out."

Fenris gave the mage as pointed a look as he could manage, which was just about as sharp as a doorknob, and growled.  "Shut up and get on with it."

"You could do to show a little gratitude," snorted the mage.  The annoyance on his face was but a passing wave, melting into some sort of resignation like he was dealing with a recalcitrant but endearing child.

"Get on with it," mumbled Fenris, still tethered to the edge of sleep.  Anders raised a brow.

"Please," Fenris added.

"See?  It's not that difficult to be nice to someone who's trying to help you, is it?"

"I love seeing the both of you bicker," came Hawke's voice.  Fenris shoved his elbow into the man behind him and found satisfaction when he heard the rogue croak.

"You jabbed me in the gut!  I didn't know you were so fond of touch," teased Hawke.

"I touch people all the time.  Usually their insides," smirked Fenris.

"Just stop with all that public display of affection.  It's giving me gooseflesh," said Anders.

"Don't you want to touch him?  He doesn't look like he'll bite.  Maybe he won't even remember when he sobers up."

"I _am_ touching him," muttered Anders, holding up his bloody hands.  "I'm completely soaked to my elbows in his _bodily fluids_."

"You're finally developing a sense of humour," chuckled Hawke.

Fenris could feel the rumble in Hawke's chest when he laughed and the feeling of it made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  He shifted a little, trying to lean a little closer.

"Maker!  Is he...nuzzling me?"

"It'd be perfect if he mewed," said Anders, strangely lacking in sarcasm. 

"He's already purring," grinned the rogue, earning a growl from his charge that simply affirmed his words.

"He...does sound like he's purring.  Except that we know he's just trying to make inebriated growling sounds."

Fenris swore he was going to get back at the two.  Even if he could not physically and violently do so, he would at least do his best to thrash them at Wicked Grace and make them beg for mercy.

The mage gripped the arrow's shaft, and _pushed_.

It hadn't been as painful as Fenris expected, given prior experience.  Still, it was terribly unsettling to feel metal grating flesh and bone.  He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into whatever he could grab around him.

"This is hurting me more than it hurts him, Anders," Hawke whined, for one of Fenris's hands had found its way to his thigh and dug his bony fingers in hard.  The rogue plucked off Fenris's hand and was about to give something that wasn't alive for the elf to dig his nails into but the elf was faster, wrapping his fingers around the man's wrist, bent on cutting off its blood circulation.

"You're right after all," mused Hawke.  "He does have his hands all over the place if I can't get him to keep them to himself."

"Do something, Hawke.  I don't know how he's doing it being sloshed as he is, but he's hurting himself tensing up and pulling his muscles like this."

"I suppose he makes a good lover," said Hawke, "since that means he can get-"

"Hawke." Anders rolled his eyes.

"-itupevenwhendrunk."

"Have you been taking lessons from Isabela?"

"Oh yes.  Very good lessons."

"You _do_ know she catches diseases pretty often.  And here's a hint.  It's not a cold."

"That's what our trusty healer is for."

"Your trusty healer orders you to distract him."

"Fenris," said Hawke, ruffling the elf's hair again in the way he knew would annoy the elf most.  "Would you like me to coo and dangle candy in front of you?"

The elf, taking the bait and getting thoroughly annoyed, slacked his muscles enough for Anders to get the arrow to emerge.

"It's crowning," grinned Hawke.

Fenris simply grunted.

Anders did not even bother to respond.  He continued pushing, and with the help of the numbing salve, the pain thankfully never became unbearable.  There was an awkward silence until the shaft slid smoothly out the other side.

"Congratulations, it's a six-barbed son of a bitch," chuckled the rogue.

With a swift motion, Anders started closing the open wounds on the elf's thigh.

"Come on, no reaction?  I thought I made a pretty amazing pun back there."

"Shut up," snapped Anders and Fenris in unison.

When he was done closing the wounds, Anders stood up unsteadily, leaning heavily on the table.  Just one more step to go.  He turned to the elf and made his intentions clear.

"I'm going to bandage you up so your wounds won't reopen easily.  You can go to sleep now."

"Too late.  He's already asleep," murmured Hawke, keeping his voice down.

"Lucky bastard."

"Why don't you go rest?  I'll lay him down and do the bandages," offered Hawke.

Anders could hardly resist the offer.  He passed rolls of bandages to the rogue, tottered off to the nearest cot, curled up and promptly passed out.

 

Fenris awoke to a bustling clinic.  The cot he was in was shielded from the rest of the clinic by moth-eaten curtains.  His head hurt but he willed his aching body to sit up.  He got up too fast and his stomach retaliated, spewing what little he had in him onto the floor.  His freshly healed injuries strained under his assertion and he curled up in pain.  He tried to stop coughing but it would not subside until his body finally decided it was too much in pain to cough.  The curtain drew open sharply and a concerned Anders stood there.  Fenris looked at the mage and wondered if he should have made a bigger mess by throwing up on Anders's cot.  If he was going to make a mess to piss off the mage anyway, why not make a bigger mess and drive the mage nug-crazy?

Anders glared at the mess and strode over to close the distance between them.  Fenris wondered if he was going to be struck by the mage who was looking far from happy.  Unable to defend himself and knowing that Hawke would never allow him to use the only lethal offence he possessed at this point, he shrunk back into the cot.  Fenris hadn't felt this helpless since Danarius, and it sent cold shudders down every muscle.  He promised himself that if the mage struck him with magic, he would let himself stick a hand in him and grab on a kidney or something.  He kept his eyes wide open, watching and waiting.  When Anders reached his hand out and touched him, he flinched and instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.  In that instant, his lyrium brands burst into life and set the both of them aglow in an unworldly blue.

"Sorry."

Fenris opened his eyes at the unexpected apology.

"For a moment, I forgot you were averse to touch," said Anders.  The elf merely stared at him, puzzled.

"I was checking for a fever," said the mage, "and there is none.  You'll be fine after a few days' rest."  He ducked out for a moment and came back with a cup of water and a rag to the elf to clean himself with.  Silently, he knelt down with another rag and made quick work of the soiled floor.

Fenris blinked.  Was that it?  The mage would be so considerate as to even ignore him soiling his sanctuary of healing?  The light of his markings faded together with his apprehension and he spoke. 

"Mage.  I...owe you an apology."

"What for?  If it's because you took my bed, that's Hawke's fault."

"I thought," Fenris looked away, "you were going to strike me."

Anders raised a brow.

"Don't be stupid.  Why would I go to all that trouble to heal you just to hit you?  I'd be giving myself more work.  And as it is, I'm rather busy."  The healer turned and went back to his waiting patients.  Some of them caught sight of the elf and he could hear them asking Anders about him.

He slumped back into the cot, letting his exhausted body rest while he watch the mage mill about the clinic.  After a while, Anders came back to him and drew the curtain shut.  Did he not want Fenris to see him working?

"I remember you saying you like your privacy," came Anders's voice behind the curtains.  Fenris heard him walk off once more and wondered if this Anders was the same Anders he knew.  He thought about what he knew, and felt confused.  And then he realised the kindness this mage had consistently shown to others was phenomenal.  Tallying the actions the mage has done so far since he knew him, he saw more good than bad.  He was giving his magic to heal the needy without questions and without asking for compensation. 

He gave his trust to utter strangers. 

Strangers who could've betrayed him to the templars.  By wanting to let them know that magic could be used for good, he risked everything.  For lofty, foolish ideals, he saved mages who could have turned on him with blood-magic.  Fenris found himself unable to understand such a man.  He couldn't understand how Anders could live for so intangible an ideal when everyone else around him was struggling just to live. 

Fenris knew he was living from day to day, spending his waking hours awaiting his old master to turn up so he could slay the magister.  But what after?  There was nothing else he had to live for.  He knew he would do many things to survive, but beyond that, he had never thought of it.  What was it like to live the way this confounding mage was living?

It was dusk when he next woke.  He drew the curtain open slowly and saw the clinic empty.  The main doors were shut and Anders was seated at the table near his cot, fast asleep.

"Mage," said Fenris.

"Mmm, what?"  Anders stirred and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Thank you," said the elf softly.

The mage gave him a mock look of horror.  "Where have you taken Fenris and what have you done to him?"

A growl.

"Now that's more like you." Anders yawned and stretched.

"I will not owe you a favour," said the elf, "even if you have done something I did not ask for."

"Some thanks.  Blame me for your lyrium markings too, why don't you?"

Fenris shook his head.  "That's not what I meant.  I will repay your favour.  Speak to me of what you want.  Is it coin you wish for, or my assistance for a job?"

"I did not do this so I could ask you for payment—" Anders perked up as if hitting upon a great idea.  "How about we call it even?  You don't owe me anything and I don't owe you anything."

Fenris narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  Anders sounded way too chirpy for someone who had just woke up with dark circles under his eyes.

Just then came a knock.

"Open up, Blondie.  It's me, Varric."

As the dwarf walked in, Fenris suddenly remembered.

"Mage.  Didn't you owe me five sovereigns from that diamondback game last week?"

"We just called it even, didn't we?"

"You did.  I did not."

"And that's five sovereigns too many," said Varric.  "You shouldn't play the elf if you're hard up on money.  Maker knows he never loses to you."

Anders cringed.  The indignity he felt when he first lost a few silvers to the elf who claimed to be new to the game.  He had planned to recoup his losses, but the elf was on one hell of a lucky streak.  Somehow his debt snowballed ten times from fifty silvers.  He had told Fenris he'd pay him back another day and hoped the elf would perhaps one day completely forget about it.

"Err...you'll let me call it even, won't you?  After last night and all?"

Fenris rolled his eyes, but it was hard to keep a straight face.

"Oh, I don't know.  It might be fun to hold this over you for a while," smirked the elf.

"Hah, Hawke's sarcasm is rubbing off on him.  You've got to step up your game now, Blondie," laughed Varric.

"So," continued the dwarf, "game for another round at the Hanged Man tonight?"

"I'll pass," said Anders, waving him away weakly.

"Maybe the mage is afraid he'd lose to me again," said Fenris, his low voice warm and smug.

"As if.  I'm not afraid of you, elf," said a very insulted Anders.

"No offence, Blondie, but I don't think you have anything else left to lose.  You might end up having to walk back to Darktown naked.  And templars will be after you for all the wrong reasons."

"Varric, that's—" they was interrupted by rather the urgent banging on his locked clinic doors.  The trio stiffened up and kept quiet, Anders strode to the door, staff in hand, and listened.

"Healer, please open up if you are in there!  My daughter is hurt!"  Some woman's voice rang beyond those doors.  Anders carefully open the door a crack, and upon seeing familiar Darktown faces, he opened the doors all the way and left them open.  A flick of his wrist and the lantern was lit.  If he was going to work, he might as well go all the way.

"The lantern is lit!"  More gasps from outside his clinic as pattering footsteps let Anders know that runners would be informing the patients who would need his help.  He had the unconscious girl set on one of the cots and rolled up his sleeves.  A quick probe told him she just lost consciousness from pain but she would be all right once her broken bones were mended.  He calmed the mother by giving a reassuring smile and telling her in a soft tone that her daughter would be fine.

Suppressing a yawn, Anders tucked his staff away in a closet right in front of the two Darktown residents and got to work.

Fenris stared, seeing for the first time how Anders really worked.  The mage was charisma personified, getting the woman to tell him all about herself and her daughter as he mended the girl's broken bones.  The mage then probed into the girl's mind and woke her.  Seeing such magic in use made Fenris uneasy.  Yet the mage's presence itself made everyone in the room feel so completely safe. 

He knew what the mage was making his patients feel; that they could trust their all in Anders and let him put everything right for them.  He felt the same thing the night before.  Granted, he was drunk and probably lacked better judgement, but the sweet repose he had last night was better than anything he could have dreamed.

The mage's lack of vigilance in front of strangers, even if they were Darktown residents, made Fenris frown.  Healing sanctuary or no, being unguarded would be the death of the mage soon if he carried on like this.  People will always deceive and betray.  He was about to point it out aloud when Anders, who walked over to grab some bandages in a cupboard near him, turned his way and told him to lie down and rest.

For a moment, Fenris wondered if he had ever seen the not-contentious side of the mage before this whole brandy episode.  The Anders before him now seemed like someone he was not all that familiar with.  He remembered hearing the mage mention how he was different before he and Justice became one.  Was this man before him this a part of the original Anders?  Frustrated with thoughts complicating things that used to be so easy, he turned his vision away from the mage.

"Ahem, said the rogue dwarf in a timely manner, "I'll get out of your hair now, Blondie."

Fenris perked up.  The prospect of spending the rest of the day here was rather unappealing so he quickly asked after the dwarf.  "Are we still on for that diamondback game later?"

"Sure, elf.  Get Blondie to come along too when he's done.  He shouldn't overwork himself."

Anders passed the bandaging work to the woman and stormed over to Fenris.

"What is it, mage?" growled Fenris.

"As long as you are in my clinic, you are my patient.  And the healer says there will be no frolicking about the Hanged Man or any drinking of sorts for at least the next two days."

"I do not frolic.  And you are not my master; I do not have to obey you."

"Andraste's knickers!  I am advising you, not ordering you.  Why are you being so difficult?"

Fenris hung his head low at the admonishment, but stubbornness won out.  He stood up, if a little unsteady.  The mage was right, he admitted reluctantly.  The numbing salve all worn off, burning pain hindered his every movement.  He was straining just to stand.  He gathered that although his wounds were closed, he had lost a lot of blood after all.  It would take time for the damage inside to fully heal.

"Varric," said Fenris, putting on his armour and checking his sword, "how about we go for a drink on me while the mage does his work?"

"I wouldn't say no to a free pint, Broody," grinned Varric, "but you are looking rather pale."

"If I am not occupied, I am afraid I shall while away my evening hunting slavers."

Sick and injured refugees were trickling in and Anders knew he would not have the time or energy to argue with the rock of an elf.

"Is that a threat?" groaned Anders.

"Well then, to the Hanged Man it is.  Better for him to be hanging with us than running off on his own eh, Blondie?"

"At least grab a crutch over there and leave your sword behind.  And your heavy gauntlets.  You're in no condition to walk for two days, you stupid elf."  Anders went back to his patients, the healed girl's mother currently took upon herself to assist him, fetching herbs and bandages for him.

Fenris raised a brow and promptly proceeded to disobey the mage.  He tested his leg, and almost buckled under the weight of his own sword when he attempted to pick it up from the table.

"I said, no pressure on that leg for at least the next two days!  I don't care if you lose your leg, you stupid, sodding elf!"

The young boy he was attending to stopped crying, stunned at the healer's sudden outburst.  Anders seldom yelled at his patients.  Everyone turned to look at Fenris as if he were a very naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Varric snorted a laugh.

Embarrassed at being the centre of attention, the elf barked the first retort that came to his head.

"What are you, my mother?"

Varric kindly held out a crutch for Fenris to take and jerked his head, gesturing for the elf to leave the greatsword behind.

"Broody here obviously doesn't take after mommy.  I'd like to see who his daddy is," said Varric, looking very amused to see Anders so riled.

Just then Hawke walked in.  The rogue always had the worst timing.

"Daddy's here!" grinned Hawke with opened arms, joining in the banter he completely overheard, and was smacked in the face by a ball of used bandages flung his way, courtesy of Anders.

Fenris tried hard to school his face into his usual nonchalance.  He should be annoyed at Hawke as well, but having seen the face Anders made, he couldn't help but let loose a throaty laugh.

And then he caught Hawke grinning in a way that meant the rogue was _up to no good_. He gave an awkward cough and looked away.

"So, are we on with our big family gathering tonight?  Isabela and Merrill are already at the Hanged Man," said Hawke.

"Let's go grab the guard-captain and choirboy while we're at it, Hawke."

"Good idea, Varric."  Hawke turned to Fenris, "I'll come back for the both of you when everyone's there."

"I apologise in advance, Hawke, but I think I shall be busy," said Anders, who was in the midst of preparing medicine for an elderly patient.  There were still a few more patients sitting around waiting for him.

"Not even if Daddy begs Mommy?" asked rogue #1, who promptly dodged a second wave of bloodied rags thrown his way.

"No one's dying here, Sparklefingers.  Your helpers here can manage on their own, I'm sure," added rogue #2.

"I appreciate the thought, but my patients—"

"Mage," interjected Fenris, "Hawke asked you to come, so come."

"I may consider it if you called off my debt and begged me," taunted Anders, knowing that irritating the elf would probably make them give up on him.

What Anders hadn't expected was Fenris limping up to him, his deep eyes staring straight into his own.  He could smell the lyrium off the elf and licked his dry lips.  The elf, injured as he was, had his own way of walking and holding himself in a way that complimented his slender frame.  _It's just the lyrium talking, you lyrium addict,_ Anders told himself.  Justice heard that.  And proceeded to argue in his head that desiring lyrium did not mean addiction to lyrium and that Anders was not and should never resort to substance abuse of any sort.  _Yes, yes.  It's just a figure of speech, Justice._

"I will call off the debt," said the warrior in the low, soft voice he had never the privilege to hear.  Fenris reached to grab his arm, long elven fingers digging awkwardly into his upper arm painfully.  Anders wanted to swat the elf's hand off but when he saw those wide puppy eyes in full force, whatever defence he had prepared completely melted.  The elf seemed to be using a lot of effort to keep himself upright and there was no more strength left to maintain any semblance of anger. 

Fenris with less anger and more puppy eyes.  Anders found that he could get used to this.

"I am not going to ask again.  Come with us," said Fenris, so softly the others probably could not hear them, "please." 

"What did you just say?" he had not meant for the words to come out so abruptly.  Fenris narrowed his eyes.

"Mage...no," Fenris shook his head, "Anders.  Come with us."

Anders nodded, mouth slightly agape.

Some time later at the Hanged Man, Fenris lay his head on his folded arms atop the table and listened to the conversations around him.  Anders was seated beside him at the crowded table but he was too exhausted to object.  Besides, in the few games he had managed to play with his shaky hands, he got the mage to owe him fifty silvers.  _Ah, sweet victory._   The smell of sour ale and piss didn't seem that unpleasant with such company.

Hawke, Varric and Isabela were on a roll attempting to corrupt Sebestian and Merrill with the Canticles of Captain Isabela, and Aveline had left with Donnic for some private time together.  Fenris could see the mage was no less exhausted than himself, having worked long hours with very little sleep.  Anders lay his head on the table as Fenris did.  They were close enough for their elbows to touch but neither of them seemed to mind.

"You were right after all.  I should rest," murmured Fenris sleepily.

"The healer is always right," muttered Anders.

"Not the healers I've met."

"I see.  Well, I'm always right, then."

"Only as a healer."

"Coming from you, that's as good a compliment as I'm ever likely to get."

"Heh."  Fenris's eyes closed and he fell asleep in a minute.  Anders, thoroughly drained himself, followed soon after.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Dragon Age fanfic. I wrote this because I wanted to see Anders getting Fenris drunk. I hope I managed to portray them in-character! A big thank you to beingevil for introducing me to Dragon Age 2. Hours of endless fun! This fic's for you. :)


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